The Price Paid
by thegraytigress
Summary: On the first night after losing his heart, the new captain of the Flying Dutchman struggles to find the strength to accept his destiny.


**DISCLAIMER:** _Pirates of the Caribbean_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** K+ (for adult themes)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Hi, all! This story is sort of a companion piece to _Fiddler's Green_ only with a little bit more of a happy ending (in as much as Will and Elizabeth can have a happy ending – even ten years later, watching the end of _At World's End_ still makes me tear up just a little). Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

**THE PRICE PAID**

The _Flying Dutchman _needed her captain.

But her captain was lost, lost in a maelstrom of misery and hopelessness. He sat in the captain's quarters, alone and beaten, defeated in every sense of the word. Outside the crew silently, solemnly, and reverently labored as the ship was rushed on fervent winds further and further from land. Now that the curse that had turned them from men to monsters had been broken, they had each of them been offered freedom by their new leader. However, none had taken it. There was nothing left ashore for them, with family long dead and dreams long surrendered. A hundred years before the mast altered the soul. What would an eternity do?

The song of the winds against the sails and the whisper of the waves against the hull filled the quiet. Will narrowed his eyes, staring absently at the great, hulking organ that consumed much of the far wall of the impressive chamber. He sat, hunched and weary, and tears filled his eyes. Not a few hours prior he had spent one day with Elizabeth, one precious and sacred day, and now it was but a vivid memory. He closed his eyes and released a slow, long breath. He could still see her, beautiful and radiant with the falling sun bathing her, her honey hair blowing in the wind, her sun-drenched body vibrant and set aglow by the waning day. He could still touch her, her skin as smooth and soft as silk beneath his fingertips, her legs strong as they wrapped around his hips, her lips tender as she devoured his mouth. He could still smell her, a fresh scent that reminded him of summer flowers and the sweet spray of the sea. He could still taste her. He could still hear her. Her voice laden with desperation, with fear and grief. With love. And he had left her.

Will released a choked sob, slamming his fist onto the keys of the organ. With a great, baleful rumble, the deep sound exploded from the gigantic pipes and shook the _Dutchman_ to her very core. It faded as his limp fingers slid from the stained ivory keys. With its waning echo went his anger. There was an ache in his chest, a hollow, dull throbbing that was novel and grotesque and terribly troublesome. Perhaps his heart was gone from him, but the pain of its absence, and hers, was a grievous burden. He clutched at his breast, wincing and unable to stifle a gasping moan. The key hanging about his neck was clenched tightly in his hand, shaking with the force of the squeeze, and he bowed his head.

"William?"

He opened eyes he had closed tightly. The tentative call pulled him from the swirling storm of misery. He heard soft footfalls approaching. Drawing a ragged breath to calm himself, he raised his gaze and summoned some measure of strength. He didn't know if he had any more in him.

A large, pale hand fell upon his shoulder. "You don't have to pretend, son." The low tenor of his father's voice seemed terribly loud in the mournful silence, and Will felt fresh tears burn his eyes as his shoulder was tenderly squeezed. "You don't have to." Shaking, cramped fingers slowly released their vise-like grip upon the key. His hand fell to his lap. Bill Turner grasped his son's other shoulder in a show of comfort. "There's a time and place to be a captain, and a time and place to be everything else."

"Or to be nothing," Will answered despondently. He _was_ nothing. A ghost. A slave to another man's mistress. "This isn't my place. This isn't where I belong."

"I know. I never wanted this to happen."

Will turned slightly to glance up at his father with wet, tired eyes. The man bore an expression of saddened regret upon his white countenance. He was a barnacle encrusted beast no longer, but a simple sailor who had seen too much and done too little to stop it. He was not the man Will remembered from his youth. He hadn't known what he had expected when he had come to the Caribbean to find his lost father all those years ago, but the broken shadow before him little resembled the strong, smiling, loving character he cherished in his few pleasant memories. Perhaps that man had never existed at all, and time and wistful thinking had birthed him in a little boy's naïve mind. But at that moment, as he gazed upon his father now freed from the chains of the curses once laid upon him, Will knew this _was_ the man who'd carried him atop his shoulders, who'd kissed him goodnight, who'd told him stories of grand, ocean adventures, and who'd left with a promise to return. The hazy image from all those years ago appeared before him now, with the same open eyes and the same tender hands. "You didn't know," the younger Turner said finally, wishing to alleviate a bit of his father's guilt.

"No," he answered, shaking his head slightly. He'd gathered his stringy brown hair into a tail behind his neck, but a few strands fell free to run down the side of his face. "But I knew it wouldn't end well, you trying to help me. The selfish part of me held to that promise that you would come back for me, even when the ship sucked my mind dry of my thoughts. But a greater part of me wanted you to turn away and never look back because I was afraid for you."

Will averted his eyes once more and lowered his head. A silence returned, one rife with an unwillingness to face a fate they now knew to be terribly immutable. Denial was futile, no matter how natural and appealing it seemed, and it could not make ten years shorter, much less an eternity. "Was it hard for you?" he asked after a long, vacuous moment. "To leave us? Was it hard?"

He heard Bootstrap shuffle a bit, turning perhaps. The ship swayed. "In its way," the low voice eventually responded. "But it's not the same, Will. I wanted to be a pirate. I wanted this life. You don't."

"No, but apparently I was destined to be what I am now. Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_, with his heart locked in the Dead Man's Chest." He shivered despite himself and despite the warmth of this night. "A servant of the sea."

His father gazed forlornly upon him. "Piracy is in your blood. The sea would have eventually called to you strong enough to pull you to its bosom," he declared emptily, "if not this way then some other."

Will shook his head. It was true that his opinion of pirates had changed somewhat since his fateful first meeting with Jack Sparrow more than a year ago. They were still ruffians without loyalty or any sense of integrity, but he had found an unusual honor in them. Even Jack had his moments of honesty. The captain had, after all, given up his chance at immortality so that Will might live. And even though the man had thrust this curse upon him, it had given him a chance to see his love, to exist beyond that horrible moment, and he knew Jack had sacrificed that very thing he'd always wanted to see it done. They could be good men. His father. The comrades he had found in his journey. Barbossa, even. Jack. He was not ashamed to be one of them any longer.

But he had never desired this life. There was a sense of excitement upon the sea to which he was certainly not immune. He couldn't deny that the rhythm of the waves, the scent of the surf, the wind in his hair and the blue expanse of freedom all around him were not exhilarating. But Elizabeth was brighter. Elizabeth was more. If she wished him to be a pirate, he would gladly hoist the colors and sail to the ends of the earth. It was not his purpose; it was hers. His purpose was to love her.

No. His purpose was to ferry the dead to the world beyond this one. That was his duty now.

And with that thought the anger returned, as fiery and fierce as the sun, and he clenched his body against a furious shaking. And the place in his chest where his heart once was began to pulse again in such ferocious hurt. The pain came, fast and unbidden, and he let loose the torrent of his misery with a desperate cry.

But then arms enveloped him, strong arms that held him tight with hands that grabbed his wrists and stilled his tortured struggle. "Hush, Will!" came the whispered plea in his ear. When he fought further, the embrace tightened until he was forced to be still. "I'm here. You're not alone. Hush, son."

In the long moments that followed, the sea calmed. Tears fled him in a miserable flood, and once he began to weep, he found he could not stop. Soft sobs filled the cavernous chamber, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the burning anguish, grabbing his father's arms as he swayed and shook. For his own part, Bill Turner merely held his son, tucking Will's head to his chest and comforting him during the worst of the storm. The pain fled the new captain with each breath, spilling from his eyes and lungs and lips like poison, and he cried piteously in an effort to rid himself of the harrowing pain. He had never let himself go like this before. All his life he had fought to accept what befell him. There was no reason, after all, to lament what he could not change. His station in society. His losses. His shortcomings. This was the first time he deeply and truly felt sorry for himself, that he so completely lost himself in depression without a single care for optimism or hope. He drowned himself in his pain.

And his father let him. His father let him suffer for his lost love, for the pain he'd endured, for the scars on his back and on his chest and on his soul, for the promise of a wondrous life that had been theirs so briefly before fate had cruelly snatched it away. His father let him cry for his wife, alone and frightened and worried and so far away. His father let him wallow in this storm of bitter, heated tears. He did so silently. The ship rocked and the ocean whispered a plaintive apology in the wind.

When at long last his despair was spent, he shuddered and sighed. His father squeezed him, tucking his son's head beneath his chin as though he was a mere boy and not a man in his own right. "I know it hurts, Will."

The young captain closed his eyes. "Aye," he murmured.

The arms encircling him slowly retracted. Will found it within himself to turn and face the other man. He opened his mouth to apologize for his behavior, but Bootstrap gave a sad and somewhat knowing smile. "You don't have to pretend, remember?" Despite the emptiness he felt, Will gave half a grin. "I know you're my captain, and that I'm but a hand aboard your ship. But I'm also your father, if you'll let me be. I very much want you to let me be." His smile grew soft. "A hundred years before the mast wouldn't begin to fulfill a pledge I made to you long ago."

Will reached out and took his father's hand. "There is no pledge you need to fulfill."

"I can't let myself believe that," Bootstrap answered with another sad, sheepish expression upon his face.

"Then believe I want you to be my father," Will said. As the two men beheld each other, their long estranged relationship felt right and true for the first time in many, many years. Will grinned wearily, his eyes burning and his body aching. "And believe if something good can come of ten years away from Elizabeth it would be ten years spent with you."

Bill Turner's smile turned wide and warm, and genuine happiness that touched his dark, gray eyes. He reached forward a white hand recently healed of a heinous curse and brushed his fingers down his son's cheek. "Good night, Captain," he murmured, dropping his hand and offering a little bow. He then took his leave, turning and quietly exiting the great room.

Alone once more, Will turned upon the chair before the organ, looking away from the doors of the captain's quarters. He felt better, though hardly anything had changed. A few minutes had passed, and they were truly inconsequential when faced with ten years. But his burden seemed lighter somehow. And he was grateful for that, for what his release had done to ease his spirit, for the relief he felt no matter how transient or false it was. He looked down to his chest, seeing the hideous scar that painted his breast as a brutal reminder of what he had been forced to sacrifice. Experimentally he traced his fingers down the heated mark, but there was no pain, even though he'd expected it. He gave a crooked, rueful smile before the sight of it grew to be too much. He buttoned the top of his tunic to hide the wound, and he stuffed the key he wore beneath the linen to hide that as well.

The sea shifted. He knew it now as he'd never known it before. His heart beat had become the thrum of the water against the hull of his ship. His breath was now the rush of wind to and from the sails. It was an alien sensation, and one he was slowly beginning to accept. He saw things differently. He felt things differently. If there was a disparity between a man's senses and a true sense of the world or between life and death or between the natural and what was well beyond it, he was truly in the middle of it all. Immortality was not simply a gift, as he was beginning to understand, or even a curse, and it was not something to which one simply adjusted. His ship was following a course through uncharted waters that he inexplicably knew would lead them to their destination without aid of the stars or a single chart. And he knew the sea was changing.

A harsh breath of wind rushed through the cabin, setting the flames from the innumerable candles strewn about to waver. Will rose, narrowing his eyes and wiping away the last remnants of his tears. The candles continued to flicker. He swept his gaze around the great room. A glint of silver caught his gaze, and the wind died as suddenly as it had started. He looked to the shadows on one of the ledges alongside the monstrous organ, reaching a tentative hand to it and pulling out a silver talisman upon an old chain. It was heart-shaped with a woman's face carved into the front. The metal was a bit tarnished and weathered. He recognized it immediately. Davy Jones' locket. It was one of two, and the other belonged to the woman he had loved.

Will held the locket in his palm, gazing at it absently. His fingers found the small latch, and the lid of the locket flipped open. The gears within began to turn, and the music box played its mournful melody. Will closed his eyes as the sound. The song was pretty enough, but he couldn't associate it with anything other than bitterness, sorrow, and cruelty. Davy Jones had been so perverted by betrayal that he had known nothing but vicious hatred and sadistic malice. He had neglected the lost souls who were his charge. He had press-ganged innumerable suffering and dying men into his service. He had forced a father to whip his own son. He had looked into the eyes of love and stabbed his sword into the very heart of it. He had killed Will in front of Elizabeth. Will closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, squeezing shut the locket he held in his hand and silencing its song. He would never allow himself to become so twisted. Never.

He carried the locket as he climbed the stairs that adjoined the captain's bedroom to the chamber. His bedroom. He averted his eyes from the empty bed as he stepped to the balcony at the rear of the ship. The night rushed over him. He looked up and saw no stars, only a veil of formless, seamless gray clouds. Below the sea churned uneasily. The wind smelled of salt and distant places. Will moved towards the railing, setting his hands to the wood as he gazed out over the _Flying Dutchman's _wake. When he touched the ship, he felt something inside him relax, like a rope pulled taut that was now unwinding, and he closed his eyes. She was welcoming him, thrumming under his fingertips. Already she was healing herself.

Will breathed deeply of the night, eased by the contact. He looked down at the talisman again. He wanted none of it, none of what it meant. He would bear this weight but only because carrying it would carry him to Elizabeth. He raised his hand to throw the damned thing to the sea.

"If I were you, William Turner, I wouldn't do dat." The seductive purr filled him as breath did his lungs, and he turned. She was standing there, her dark skin glistening from the water's cool caress, her eyes as white as the moon. The mass of her hair seemed more seaweed and barnacles than it did anything else. Water pooled from her feet, dripping from her lithe and nearly naked form. She was wild and unbound, and she radiated such power as to twist his stomach. The locket he clenched abruptly turned warm and wet in his fist. _Calypso_.

He gave a wry, humorless smile and returned his gaze to the blackened ocean all around them. "I was wondering when you might come," he said softly. He extended his hand to her, offering her the necklace. "Take it. I don't want it, and it belongs to you anyway."

She smiled, revealing inky teeth. "Don't be so eager to part wit what you are given," she said. Her accent slurred the words greatly, and he struggled for a moment to make sense of them. Then he looked down, his brow furrowing in confusion, as she took his outstretched hand in her own. Each of her long, damp fingers curled over his, closing them about the talisman. "It is a gift, though it may not seem it."

His anger returned, though tempered by his release earlier and an undeniable fear of her. She was the goddess of the sea, and surely she could crush him should he annoy her. "I didn't want this," he declared bitterly. "I made my choice, and it didn't even matter."

"Dis choice was not yours to make. Destiny spoke and you obeyed," she countered. She slithered closer to him, her eyes alive with the rage of the stars, and her face twisted into an expression of lust. The grip on his hand turned tight, and his shirt fell open to her, revealing his scar. And when she saw it, she gave a saddened gasp, and like the wind twisted about a swelling sea, she changed. Clear, twinkling tears filled her eyes as she raised a trembling hand to touch him. "But I did not want dis for you neither."

"You could have stopped it," he accused. If anyone possessed the power that could have prevented Davy Jones from stabbing him, it was Calypso.

She gave a sad, knowing smile. "The _Dutchman_ needs a captain," she answered, as though that was rationale enough for why that captain had to be him. "Its purpose is greater than anythin' you might have done in your life." It hurt to hear such a thing, and he pulled away, repulsed by her nearness. "Davy Jones never accepted dis fact and made o' 'imself a monster. Da dead need der path shown to dem, else dey never find peace."

"And what of my peace?" he returned, making no effort to conceal his hurt.

"Forfeit," she responded coldly, "to a destiny you cannot change. I done tell you da cost would be great."

He rounded on her, furious and no longer frightened. "Then you are no better than he was," he hissed. "Cruel for the sake of being cruel."

Her eyes flashed. "I am da sea," she snapped, "and da sea does as she wills! You cannot change me anymore than him who loved me could. And if my betrayal done break him heart den he should have known better than to love me for somethin' I was not." Will tried to turn away, shaken and tortured, but she wouldn't let him. Her hands found their way to his face, and she held him where he stood. "Da sea cannot be controlled, William Turner, not by Davy Jones or Jack Sparrow or dem Royal Navy or dem Brethren Court or by anyone, least of all you!"

The waves roared below. He swallowed through a dry, tight throat. For a long moment, they were still, uncertain perhaps by the path that lay before him. Then she smiled, pressing herself to him. He lost the will to escape her. "But I can be wild and filled with passion, and I can call any man to my heart. A mistress to dey who crave freedom and adventure. Hmm, William Turner? Would you love me? Do you want to know me?"

He was reminded of when he first met her, when he had first heard desire in her deep, lyrical voice, when he had first felt the brush of her body to his. Her lips were so close, dancing above his in a tantalizing promise of pleasure. But he turned away. This witch nearly overpowered his senses, but deep inside he remembered Elizabeth. And he would never betray her, not even to embrace the only creature that could perhaps alleviate his suffering. "I will do your bidding," he answered finally, "but I won't replace Jones. I will _never_ love you." Her eyes flashed again as he took her hands in his own and pulled her from his face. He stepped back, releasing her. "I love my wife."

He expected her wrath for his defiance. He imagined he would learn her fury like none other. She was a temptress, lush and wild and powerful. She had swayed countless men, leading them with promises of pleasure and riches and freedom, and she had crushed countless more. But she was unpredictable as she was constant, loving as she was cruel. She smiled again, but it was softer and compassionate, and her eyes lost their blinding ire. "Den you be da man I knew you were when I first seen you," she said and he thought he heard a touch of pride in her voice. "Den you be the right choice for dis burden. Honor and integrity aren't tings normally found in the da likes of you. Destiny chose wisely."

Will sighed, pulling further away from the warmth of her touch. He turned, raising his eyes to the empty sky above him. He felt hollow and empty and so terribly alone. "That hardly eases the pain," he said sadly.

"Little will, child," she answered evenly. "Dis weight is not lightly carried."

He withered before her, succumbing to his grief. "An eternity," he whispered, "and I'll see Elizabeth only once every ten years. She's bound to this misery as much as I am. It isn't just my burden to bear." He squeezed the talisman in his palm until it hurt as he imagined his wife growing older and older while he remained unchanged. Every time he saw her the difference between them would grow until time stole her from him completely, and then he would be utterly alone and doomed to wandering the seas of the afterlife forever in his macabre and sorrowful task. Her life would be over before it had truly begun. Her life, wasted watching the horizon and waiting for him. That was a torture he could not want for her.

And yet he did, because as hellish as his fate was, it was preferable to spending a single moment knowing she had left him.

It was silent a moment as he suffered with decisions that were made and sadly unchangeable. "Perhaps." The smell of the sea enveloped him, and he felt her hands travel up his back before encircling around his waist. She pressed her cheek to him, listening for a heart beat that no one now could hear. He feared for a moment her intentions, but he quickly realized she was neither a lover nor a punisher, but a comforter providing some measure of solace. He felt her voice more than heard it. "Perhaps not. Dere are tings dat da Brethren Court ne'er understood about da way of da world. Men seek control of da sea, but she cannot be tamed and tied to any whims but her own. You know dis."

He sighed softly. "Yes."

She gave a rumbling, amused laugh. "Men are foolish and blinded by der own ambitions. Dey never realize dey have a power all der own to control da winds of fortune." She smiled against him. "Da human heart." At that he tried to turn, but she held fast, gently pinning him between her strong form and the railing of his ship. "Dere is strength dere, great strength and courage, and as man cannot bend da sea, da sea can only consume him dat lets her. No matter da turns and twists of destiny, him can always fight. And da strongest are da most tested. It is da penance for being a good man. You know dis, too."

Will closed his eyes, wondering why she was telling him this. "Yes."

She was silent for a long moment, and the waves below whispered in her stead. He waited, trapped against her. Eventually she spoke again, likely at last making a decision to tell him what she intended. "I have not told dis story to anyone in many, many years, but I will tell you, William Turner, to give you a chance to be strong where we were weak." Those words seemed loud and powerful, despite the quiet tone with which she spoke them, and he tensed his body ever so slightly in anticipation. "I bade Davy Jones to do him task for ten years, and once dem years was done, we would be together agin. Jest one day, but on dat day, we would be free. Dat day, our love would be enough to last another ten years."

"But you betrayed him," Will continued quietly. "You weren't there when he came for you."

She balled her fists in his shirt. "Mine own nature," came that wild purr once more, and he stiffened to feel her unbridled desire. "Ere we parted, I gave him dat which you hold. One of two." He had seen the other trinket draped from Tia Dalma's neck during their journey. He noticed that she wasn't wearing it this night. "Ten years we would wait, and den when him returned to me, the two together would show da strength of our devotion. If our love be true, da price would be paid and ne'er more would we be parted," she whispered in his ear, and her fingers danced down the length of the scar on his chest. He shivered. Then she whirled away, releasing him with a cold wind ripping through his clothes. "But it never came to be because Davy Jones turned to hatred instead. Him cut out him heart and locked it in da chest. Him betrayed me to da Brethren! Him failed in his task! And him lost the only ting dat ever mattered to him." She roared these things, and the lilting music of her voice turned cold and angry. "A man makes him own choices." He nodded. "You chose your lady love when da moment came, and again you choose her now."

"I'll always choose her," he swore.

"And you tink dat choice means nothin' since you be here, lost to her and lost to da livin' world?" she asked.

He lowered his gaze again, saddened and shameful. He tried to believe that one day would be enough. He had that morning, when the sun had risen to bless the time they had had ahead of them. But now, on the other side and facing ten long years of emptiness… He'd been hurt by hope before. "Please," he whispered, despaired, "take this. I don't want it." And again he offered her the trinket.

But she only offered a sweet, mothering smile that suggested he need not fear any more. "It is yours, as it was always meant ta be." She leaned close to him, kissing his cheek lightly. Lovingly. His eyes closed as she embraced him. The sea and her servant. Her voice was a soft sigh upon the wind. "Da strongest and truest of emotions be da most tested, Captain Turner. If ye be loyal and if she be loyal, da price be paid."

Then she was gone. A heated wind rushed over him, ruffling his clothes, brushing through his loose hair. The chain of locket he held tightly in his hand rattled in the brief fury. He smelled her a moment more, and then the night was quiet and gentle.

Fair winds and calm seas. He smiled faintly.

The clock in his quarters struck midnight. Today was the first day of the ten years he would spend estranged from his wife. Everything was so dark in this place and time. He heard something in the shadows beyond. There the dead were wailing. Those lost by Jones' neglect. Those recently passed. They were his ward now, and he knew the task to right this grievous wrong would be arduous and long lasting. Then he remembered the days he had labored as a blacksmith to ensure perfection in his craft, working tirelessly to pound a molten piece of metal in just the right way as to form a beautiful sword from its ugly uselessness. He recalled the innumerable hours he had spent practicing to become a skilled fighter, to be the best at swordplay so as to protect himself and those he loved from danger. He thought of the years he had waited, waited for his father to come home, waited for Elizabeth to be his. He had patience. No matter how much he wished otherwise, he admitted to himself that Calypso was right; he was fit for this task.

And maybe, just maybe, buried in all her riddles, she spoke the truth about the other things as well. Why else would she have come and told him what she had with such emotion in her voice? He had had no choice in his fate; it had been thrust upon him the moment Davy Jones' blade had pierced his chest. But he _did _have a decision yet to make. He could have hope. He could love Elizabeth as he always had. He could trust in her and in them. He could be strong and resilient for everything they were and would continue to be.

He could succeed where Davy Jones had so horribly and utterly failed.

If he had learned anything during his perilous adventures, things were rarely as they seemed. The sea lied and cheated and stole and crushed. She was manipulative and vicious. But the sea birthed life and hope and love, as well. She was a mother and lover to all things.

He wanted to believe. He needed to. It was all he had to combat the fate that stretched endlessly before him. The belief that one day could be a lifetime of love. The belief that their faith in each other was stronger than any test. And if there was even the slightest chance this could be undone…

He and Elizabeth would remain true to each other. He knew nothing beyond her love. And he knew she loved him. He realized then there was no choice at all. Ten years was a small price to pay even if it meant spending only a single day at her side. He would not rest until he saw her again, held her again, showed her the very depths of his love for her again.

The new captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ returned to his ship, renewed in purpose and restored in strength, and the sea sent him onward towards his destiny.

* * *

Worlds away, Elizabeth Turner shifted in her sleep. She was listening to her husband's heart beat, as loud and as vibrant as her own, and she sighed contentedly into her tear-soaked pillow. A weathered, silver locket rested on the nightstand beside the bed, waiting to be discovered. She would wake in the morning and wonder from whence the mysterious token had come before hesitantly slipping it around her neck.

But for now she was dreaming of a sunrise tinted green and of white sails flapping in a fair and fateful wind.

**THE END**


End file.
